This is the Third and final part of an experiment I made to live and work offline and write about my results via a sort of non LiveBlog. (Part two is here.)
The final installment is below, and I must say that - unsurprisingly - the overall results are deeply boring and uninteresting to most everyone. The life of a writer is a fairly boring thing. I tend to work all alone, though I have often collaborated with a few folks. But mostly my time would be akin to watching paint dry. Thinking, scratching out notes and ideas, re-writing and re-writing again are dull events to observe. It's a far, far more exciting time within my brain of course, an electric-synaptic-orgy of thoughts and actions.
I wondered if my creation and eventual publication of a life lived offline would draw in readers. It has not. Not only am I a solo writer, I am a solo human - never been married, no girlfriend currently, so no spousal/near-spousal dramas or comedies to share; no children to tote from one life-affirming event to another; no financial chicanery or wizardry to recount; no daring recipes of dazzling foods to share (though I often do make a fine and tasty dish, plus there's always a fine cup of coffee close by); and as a solo writer, while I do have so many fascinating and intelligent friends, I don't always share such conversations here on this blog, though I often write about the results of my thoughts after such conversations.
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But I shall add today to this blog the final entry of my Three Part account of my Offline Experiment. Because, as any writer does, I hope what I write does get read. But in all honesty, the writing and the publishing tend to be most important to one lone person: Me.
Should you read, enjoy and share all 3 parts, dear reader, I thank you greatly. Now on with the show!!
PART 3
DAY EIGHT (continued)
11:38 a.m.
All the presentations of status, actions, events, stats, tweets, posts, results both googled and binged, all texting, messaging, and all the jabs of communication short and long … online I am aware these things will reach an audience of readers, whether one or ten or one thousand. Absent the Web, I’m back to the Old Ways of the Writer – what I’m saying and writing may never be seen by anyone.
So the basic foundation of writing is as it ever was: who is the writer writing for or to? Himself? Future generations which might find the scribbled notebooks (or in this case a reader who decides to search the memory of my lone computer)? The drive to make these sentences has been greatly fueled in the last eight to ten years by the reality that I can publish what I write on a global scale without being a lowly worker for a large or small publishing company, newspaper or any other media owner – I pay for my access to the web, write and publish as I wish, daily, weekly, hourly, and I publish whatever I wish. And I know what I write gets read (according to my stats counter) not only by readers in the U.S., but in Europe, Asia, South America – anywhere the Web exists.
And while it is true that without a publisher my earnings from my writing is limited, there still exists a large opportunity that a sizable paycheck will arrive in the future – a matter of my efforts to promote it, or perhaps someone else who decides to share it, or my skill or luck at saying something which snags the world’s imagination and wallets.
11:56 a.m.
Boop-bedoop-bah-bah … grrrrrrr.
8:20 p.m.
Televised coverage of the celeb arrivals for Oscars’ red carpet is deeply dull. Essentially, the actors and performers all parade past a crowd of mostly publicists, herded like cattle, yet politely, but the celebs seem to have little of note to say or do, aside from wearing clothes and jewelry. So few improve skills are displayed – even being interesting seems to escape them … though is the problem instead that today’s celebs don’t like this parade, even resent it?
9:15 p.m.
Producer Brian Grazer … how old is he, 60? Crazy scientist/spiky 1980’s pop star/anime hair looks odd on old people.
10:00 p.m.
Cirque du Soleil performs a showcase of … well, what was their show about? As the cast swings around the theater I keep thinking about how the producers of the Spiderman show on Broadway should have used them. I still think the backstage is the place to be these days.
So sad that Crystal doesn’t have Jack Nicholson to make jokes about this time around. He does Clooney jokes instead … but the mirth is oddly muffled.
11:30 p.m.
Let’s see – a French silent film comedy filmed in L.A., Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher, Woody Allen’s script, black actresses playing maids in the 1960s, a song by the Muppets, and efx/tech awards heaped upon Martin Scorcese … the show tonite seemed steeped in nostalgia.
DAY NINE
8:00 a.m.
I’m cranky and unhappy without the ability to seek and read news from the wide range of sources via the Web. There’s such a superficial gloss, an total lack of critical thinking and a loving embrace of the spin from PR men and women on television.
9:00 a.m.
This offline experiment is a drag so I am ending it. However, I will extend it through today so that I might prepare some closing remarks … which hopefully will contain some kind of notable conclusion. Hopefully. Right now, I’m lacking any wisdom here, other than I am suffering a debilitating addiction to the internet. Does that make me pitiable or do I have merely a ‘first world problem’?
All the presentations of status, actions, events, stats, tweets, posts, results both googled and binged, all texting, messaging, and all the jabs of communication short and long … online I am aware these things will reach an audience of readers, whether one or ten or one thousand. Absent the Web, I’m back to the Old Ways of the Writer – what I’m saying and writing may never be seen by anyone.
So the basic foundation of writing is as it ever was: who is the writer writing for or to? Himself? Future generations which might find the scribbled notebooks (or in this case a reader who decides to search the memory of my lone computer)? The drive to make these sentences has been greatly fueled in the last eight to ten years by the reality that I can publish what I write on a global scale without being a lowly worker for a large or small publishing company, newspaper or any other media owner – I pay for my access to the web, write and publish as I wish, daily, weekly, hourly, and I publish whatever I wish. And I know what I write gets read (according to my stats counter) not only by readers in the U.S., but in Europe, Asia, South America – anywhere the Web exists.
And while it is true that without a publisher my earnings from my writing is limited, there still exists a large opportunity that a sizable paycheck will arrive in the future – a matter of my efforts to promote it, or perhaps someone else who decides to share it, or my skill or luck at saying something which snags the world’s imagination and wallets.
11:56 a.m.
Boop-bedoop-bah-bah … grrrrrrr.
8:20 p.m.
Televised coverage of the celeb arrivals for Oscars’ red carpet is deeply dull. Essentially, the actors and performers all parade past a crowd of mostly publicists, herded like cattle, yet politely, but the celebs seem to have little of note to say or do, aside from wearing clothes and jewelry. So few improve skills are displayed – even being interesting seems to escape them … though is the problem instead that today’s celebs don’t like this parade, even resent it?
9:15 p.m.
Producer Brian Grazer … how old is he, 60? Crazy scientist/spiky 1980’s pop star/anime hair looks odd on old people.
10:00 p.m.
Cirque du Soleil performs a showcase of … well, what was their show about? As the cast swings around the theater I keep thinking about how the producers of the Spiderman show on Broadway should have used them. I still think the backstage is the place to be these days.
So sad that Crystal doesn’t have Jack Nicholson to make jokes about this time around. He does Clooney jokes instead … but the mirth is oddly muffled.
11:30 p.m.
Let’s see – a French silent film comedy filmed in L.A., Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher, Woody Allen’s script, black actresses playing maids in the 1960s, a song by the Muppets, and efx/tech awards heaped upon Martin Scorcese … the show tonite seemed steeped in nostalgia.
DAY NINE
8:00 a.m.
I’m cranky and unhappy without the ability to seek and read news from the wide range of sources via the Web. There’s such a superficial gloss, an total lack of critical thinking and a loving embrace of the spin from PR men and women on television.
9:00 a.m.
This offline experiment is a drag so I am ending it. However, I will extend it through today so that I might prepare some closing remarks … which hopefully will contain some kind of notable conclusion. Hopefully. Right now, I’m lacking any wisdom here, other than I am suffering a debilitating addiction to the internet. Does that make me pitiable or do I have merely a ‘first world problem’?
I’ve cleared more than a week without it, approaching 10 days. What time period is needed to truly flush my system of digital cyber-toxins? A month? A year? Or is it like alcohol or drug addiction – meaning I am forever an addict forced to live one day at a time with the constant threat that the addiction will return with even the slightest usage, just one email is all it would take and boom! I’m over the edge of the abyss.
How long could you go without the online world, dear reader? An hour? A day? Do you dare even attempt it?
1:00 p.m.
Grim hours ahead as I cling to my experiment in spite of a raging urge to go online …
Perhaps what has been absent is more than just my ability to amuse, entertain or even educate myself via the Web … perhaps the removal of access is also the removal of my one constant avenue of self-expression in our modern world. No access means no voice for me about the world I inhabit? That’s a chilling thought …
DAY ELEVEN
I couldn't. I wouldn't be able to do my job!
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